


The Gift

by theLiterator



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5203571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim has no idea what's going to happen to him from here, but Jason seems to think everything will be all right, so he'll have to trust in that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Eons and eons ago, I got an ask on tumblr that said: "Are you still taking prompts? If so, could you write an AU where Jack Drake uses Tim as a favor in order to smooth along big business deals and one day he has to make a deal with Bruce to prevent a hostile takeover?"
> 
> I'm pretty sure that nonny wanted BruTim, but this fic is very... not. I hope it turned out okay regardless.

Tim's hands were sweaty, but he couldn't rub them on his slacks because his dad would notice and then they'd have to _talk_ afterwards. The man who walked in though, made Tim almost break and run.

"Mr. Wayne, please, sit down," his dad said, and Tim stared up at him, large and real and utterly human in a business suit. "I've just had an emergency come up, but this is my son, Timmy. He'll be happy to look after your... needs while I am gone, won't you Timmy?"

Tim couldn't manage the breath to make a noise, so he nodded and tried to smile. His dad's expression was murderous, but Tim would deal with that later; as always, it was the immediate danger that must be dealt with first.

"Timmy, was it?" Bruce Wayne asked politely. Tim’s dad made his excuses and left.

Tim hated the nickname, but nodded anyway.

"I have a son a little older than you, I think," Bruce continued. "Jason. He attends Gotham Academy, you might know him." _Robin_ , Tim's brain supplied, too useless for anything else.

"I-I--" Tim stuttered and rubbed his hands furiously on his slacks, consequences be damned. When his dad made him watch this tape later, he was going to be angry enough about the stuttering to make everything else moot. "I go to Brentwood," Tim explained.

Bruce's smile seemed to be getting more and more strained as the interview continued.

"Timmy," he said, leaning forward and catching Tim's gaze. "What exactly do you think is going on here?" he asked.

Tim shook his head a little, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Bruce Wayne's. He was _Batman_ , Tim shouldn't have to explain these things to him.

"D-dad had a meeting and I'm here to k-keep you company," he forced himself to say, only stuttering a little.

Bruce reached for his hand and Tim flinched jerkily, shutting his eyes. Batman wasn't supposed to be like _them_ , he thought, suddenly burning with rage. Batman was a _hero_.

"Okay," Bruce said softly. "I'm going to make a phone call, and then you and I are going to go for a little ride. How does that sound?"

Tim nodded, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. He didn't cry--wouldn't cry, not on the cameras for his dad to punish him for it, not in front of Batman who was supposed to be his hero, not _ever_.

He couldn't make out the brief conversation Bruce had with whoever he'd called over the pounding of the pulse in his ears, but he did feel the way the couch shifted when Bruce came back and sat down next to him.

"Alright, Timmy. Let's go down to the lobby. If it's okay with you, I'd like to hold your hand until we get to the car."

Tim nodded and tried again to dry his sweating palms, though he knew it was useless at that point, then offered his hand tentatively to Bruce.

"Excellent. Let's go; we'll go as slowly as you'd like, okay? There's no hurry, is there?" Bruce asked.

"N-no. I mean, no s-sir, it's fine. We can go however you'd like, it's okay, I promise, d-dad won't mind." And there, Tim had finally managed to actually string together a sentence, which left him feeling very proud of himself, if also a little hollow.

Bruce's expression was flat, unreadable, and it made Tim want to curl up somewhere dark and safe. He thought, suddenly, of the fire escape just across from the GCPD building, where he always got the best pictures of Robin.

"Of course," Bruce said curtly. "But for right now, I want to go at your pace, okay? So you _will_ tell me if something makes you unhappy."

"Y-yes, sir," Tim whispered.

When the elevator arrived in the lobby, however, Tim balked. Bruce froze, then carefully crouched down so he was looking up at Tim, and Tim backed up a step because that was plain _weird_.

"I'm not supposed to go outside," Tim said.

Bruce frowned. "But I want you to go outside," he explained patiently.

"I don't have, uh--" he wiggled his toes and stared at them, feeling the moment when Bruce also looked at them.

"It will be taken care of," Bruce said. "Will you be okay to walk to the car, or would you like me to carry you?"

Tim bit his lip. On the one hand, he was of course perfectly okay walking across the well-maintained lobby and then the square outside of DI barefoot. Those were nothing compared to the Gotham rooftops, and he hadn't been allowed shoes since he was _eight_. On the other hand, he didn't really want anyone to know that he was okay being outside barefoot, especially not someone who might tell his dad. And on the other-other hand, he didn't really want Batman to think he was weak. Or scared.

Although he was doing a really terrible job at the latter, he thought, which made his eyes hot again, though he still managed not to cry.

"I can walk," he finally decided.

Bruce nodded, then straightened back up before offering Tim his hand again. Tim took it, and immediately cringed at how cold and clammy it must be compared to the warm, dry comfort of Bruce's.

Bruce's driver conscientiously handed Tim into the car, and the chill of the expensive leather and the familiar smell of cologne and expensive liquor hit him like a slap to the face.

"Where are we going?" Tim blurted out, and immediately regretted it, shutting his eyes in case Bruce decided to smack him for asking. Most people didn't like him asking questions.

"Wayne Manor," Bruce said, tapping his fingers impatiently on his leg.

"Oh," Tim replied. "Will, uh, will Jason be there?"

After a few moments of silence, Tim added tentatively, "Your son?"

An expression of complete and profound _rage_ marred Bruce's face then, and Tim recoiled. "Sorry, sorry," he chanted. "I didn't mean to, I promise, sorry."

"Timmy," Bruce said, reaching for him. Tim had to fight not to pull away into the farthest corner of the bench. "Timothy," Bruce corrected, voice calm and collected and not at all angry like he'd looked for those few seconds. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said.

"No," Tim said, shaking his head. "I know. It's okay, it won't hurt, it's fine, it'll be good," he said.

Bruce made a low noise of frustration that made Tim understand why all the criminals were so scared of him.

"Timothy," he said. "Please calm down. We're going to my home; of course Jason is there. I'm sure he'd like to meet you. You're a very nice young man. I'm happy to introduce you."

 _Robin_ , Tim thought, feeling, overwhelmingly betrayed. Robin was supposed to be _good_ and _strong_. Not like Tim, not like--

"Please don't," Tim heard himself say. "I don't want to trouble him."

And that was good. The parts of Tim that were _doing_ had finally slid out from under the parts of him that were _thinking_ , and everything was always easier once that happened.

Tim considered his options. He ought to cross to the other seat, show Bruce that he was perfectly happy to get started without Jason or whatever it was they needed to get to the Manor for, except.

Except his dad couldn't see this. 

His arms and legs were starting to feel awfully disconnected, which was also a good sign that he should be over in Bruce's lap already. Probably should have taken off your shirt, too, bucko, he thought wryly.

It was almost verging on too-late, and then he realized, it didn't matter.

"Is this your car, sir?" he asked, and it came out whispery and singsong. Good, he thought. This was good. Everything from here on out was _good_.

"Yes," Bruce said. "You may call me Bruce, if you like," he added.

"Good," Tim heard himself say aloud. If this was Bruce's car, then his father couldn't see how bad he was, and he could stay on this side.

He'd make Batman come to him; it was a petty victory, especially since it was one without consequence, but it felt good.

"Good?"

"No cameras," Tim explained. "Well, your cameras, I guess. You probably have almost a billion cameras. I have a camera too," he said, grinning dreamily.

"Tell me about your camera," Bruce instructed. His hand had come across and his fingers were circled uncomfortably around Tim's wrist. That was weird.

Bruce stared intently at his watch for several long moments, then dropped Tim's wrist. "Your camera?" he prompted.

"Can't tell," Tim said. "It's a secret. Even you never figured it out. It's _my_ secret. The very best secret."

"Do you like photography, Timothy?" Bruce asked.

"It's like a dream," he explained. "Only it's real, and I have proof."

"What do you like to dream about, Timothy," Bruce said, and the way he kept repeating Tim's name was really weird too; usually they all just called him boy, or sometimes _son_.

"Flying," he said, honestly. "I know little boys can learn to fly, I saw it once."

Bruce was smiling at him now, which was kind of nice. Who knew that the Batman could smile.

It was too bad he was just like the rest of the rich dads, actually.

"You could have been very nice," Tim told him, and then he took off his shirt.

"Timothy, we aren't at the Manor yet," Bruce said, catching his hands and holding them. Tim stared at Bruce's hands.

"Your hands are very large," Tim informed him.

"Do you think you could put your shirt back on?" Bruce said.

"Why?" Tim asked, reaching to inspect his collarbones, peering down at his skin. He didn't even have any bruises, today.

After a few moments of making sure he didn't have anything seriously ugly going on, he finally looked back up at Bruce, who had folded his shirt and set it aside.

"Timothy, why don't you tell me what _you_ want to do?" he asked quietly.

Tim bit his lip, shaking his head.

"No cameras, remember?" Bruce added.

"I want--" Tim frowned. "I want to take a nap in my secret place."

"Where's your secret place?" Bruce asked, even as he opened a hidden hatch and pulled out a pillow and some blankets.

"A fire escape. No one can see me." Tim gazed longingly at the bedding. "I don't have a pillow there."

Bruce frowned. "Well, you have one here. Take a nap, Timothy. It'll be fine."

"You won't tell dad?" Tim asked. "Last time I fell asleep it was very very very bad," he shuddered. "Bad," he repeated firmly.

"Not a word," Bruce said solemnly, offering the pillow. Tim took it and sized up the interior of the car, then carefully laid it on Bruce's leg, curling into a ball with his head in Bruce's lap.

Bruce grunted, then unfolded the blanket over him before resting a hand in his hair.

Tim woke up in a lushly apportioned office, snuggled under several blankets on a plush sofa.

He rolled over, and Jason appeared in his field of view.

"Heya, Tim, right?"

Tim blinked. He tried to figure out what all had happened, but nothing made sense. Had he really taken a nap? His dad was going to be so _angry_.

"B wanted someone here when you woke up, and Alfred said it'd probably best be me, and B got this weird twisty look like when he's about to destroy someone's business, and he said 'yes, Jason, stay,' so I stayed, and here I am. Are you hungry? Or scared? I was hungry _and_ scared when _i_ woke up here, so that's okay. I got you Zitka for the scared and sandwiches for the hungry."

And with that, Jason whirled, grabbed a tray, and plopped it on the couch near Tim's feet. He sat up and tucked them safely under his thighs, and Jason handed him a rather old plush elephant and a sandwich.

Tim took the elephant gingerly and tucked it into the blankets with him, then took the sandwich. It had been cut into a triangle, with the crusts off, and he stared at it blurrily.

"He won't mind?" he asked quietly.

"Who, B? He made Alfred make the sandwiches. It's chicken salad 'coz everyone like's Alfie's sandwiches, even super duper picky eaters like Dick, okay?"

 _Robin_ , Tim's brain supplied helpfully. He nibbled at the edges of the sandwich, and it _was_ good, but his stomach felt like it was filled up with rocks, so after a bit, he leaned over to put it back on the tray and pulled Zitka the elephant up against his chest for hugging.

It definitely helped a little with the scared.

"B says you lived next door?" Jason said. "That's crazy; back before, I lived next door to this lady and all her kids were a menace she always said and she'd give me five bucks if I made sure they went to bed when she was out tricking, right? I bet your babysitters got more than five bucks, huh?"

"Dunno," Tim said. "I never had nannies or anything."

Jason nodded. "Me either. But I woulda looked after you for _free_ if I'da known you were there."

He leaned in and hugged Tim tightly, squeezing Zitka between them. 

"Oh," Tim said.

"Okay, come on, let's go find a room for you," Jason said. "That's my second task."

Standing up, Tim realized he'd been changed into new clothes while he’d been sleeping; a superman t-shirt and pajama pants and thick socks. He shivered, and Jason frowned.

"You're too skinny," he declared, and then he took the blankets off the couch and wrapped Tim up in them. "Good enough," he decided. "But you've gotta eat your sandwich. That's a rule."

"There's rules?" Tim asked, suddenly panicked. Zitka fell from nerveless hands and he stared at her dumbly. Jason picked her up and tucked her back into Tim's hands.

"Well, yeah. You ever been in a place that didn't have rules? But it's okay, the rules here are easy; listen to Alfie, eat until you aren't hungry, and try not to explode anything."

Jason squinted at him. "You don't really seem like the exploding type, so that should be easy. But it's pretty great living with Bruce; I promise. I'da left if it wasn't."

Jason led him through the Manor, down endless halls until he reached a wing that felt warmer than the others. the doors were closer together here, and the drapes across the windows were open to let in bright sunlight.

"This is Dick's room," Jason explained, gesturing at a door. "It's where Zitka goes when you're done with her. And next door is _my_ room, and the two rooms across from us are empty so I was thinking you should take one so if you've got a question or need more than Zitka, you can just holler and I'll hear you, right?" Jason grinned at him.

Tim stared at the doors, feeling tiny in the hallway.

"I _have_ a room though," Tim said. He wanted it very badly, suddenly. He could huddle under his bed with his sheets and make a little nest until his dad came to make him watch the video so he could learn to be better.

"Yeah," Jason said, frowning. "That's the other reason it'd probably best be me, Alfie said."

He opened the door he'd indicated as his, and gestured for Tim to go inside.

Jason's room was cluttered and messy, and there were posters taped haphazardly on the walls. It was warmer inside than it had been anywhere else in the manor, and Tim let his blankets slide to the floor, where they joined the mess of Jason's dirty clothes and abandoned shoes.

"So," Jason said, rubbing his neck. "Let's sit down so we can share Zitka.”

Tim climbed into the unmade bed and perched at the very edge of it until Jason dragged him up to the top and settled in against the pillows with Zitka crammed between them.

He fussed with a cd player for a few minutes, and then suddenly the room was filled with angry music.

"There," he said. "Perfect. I guess. You know what prostitution means?"

Tim blinked. "Yeah," he said. "You exchange sex for money. Everyone knows that."

Jason blinked at him, looking surprised. "So you know how it's illegal, too?"

"Yeah," Tim said, rolling his eyes.

"So," Jason said. "I'm. Uh. Okay. So."

His hands flailed for a few seconds, and then he shook his head.

"When your dad leaves you alone with people like Bruce Wayne because they won't close a business deal, what's he want you to do?"

Tim opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head. " _You_ know," he said nastily. "You live _here_."

"Yeah, okay," Jason said. "And what's he get out of it? When he makes you sleep with them?"

Tim opened his mouth to say something else rude, then snapped it shut. Zitka made her way back up to his chest, and Jason's arms wrapped around them both.

"It's okay," Jason said. "You never have to do it again. That's why you get a room _here_."

Tim shook him off and tore across the room, remembering to throw Zitka back at him at the last moment before he slammed the door between them.

Jason caught her, which infuriated Tim, and he looked sad. "Yeah," he said. "That's about right, isn't it?"

Tim slammed the door hard enough to echo, and he raced through the halls to get away from that messy room and from Robin _lying_ to him.

Tim was huddled in the concealing dark of a closet when the light in the outer room flicked on. He sucked in a terrified breath and held as still as possible.

It was just likely that he had gotten himself into way deeper trouble than he could imagine any way of getting out of.

He was 99% sure that neither Bruce nor his dad would actually kill him, but he was equally certain that his dad, at least, would spend the weeks left before he got to go back to school making him wish he were dead.

"No," Bruce snapped out coolly. "I'm keeping the company _and_ the boy, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, not with the evidence my people found on your servers--"

He broke off, only to chuckle a few minutes later.

"Of course I had my people scour the DI computers; I wouldn't want anything _nasty_ to sneak up on WE in a few years. It’s standard procedure in all of my acquisitions," Bruce said.

More silence, then. "Why would I want your company _and_ your son? He deserves _something_ in return for what you've done to him; I'm just keeping it safe until he's old enough to decide what he'd like to do with it."

Tim very desperately wished he could hear what his dad was saying to Bruce. He was probably angry, but if Tim didn’t know _how_ angry, there wasn’t much he could do to fix it.

"So you'll sign the paperwork? Excellent. I hope you sleep better, knowing he's in better hands than yours ever were," Bruce said, and then there was a tiny beep which probably meant the call was over.

Had Bruce really bought out Drake Industries? Tim was trying to figure out where that left him and his dad, and whether that meant he was rich anymore. He hoped he could still go to Brentwood; boarding school had been such a relief when he'd gotten skipped ahead to middle school, and he wasn't sure he'd survive going back to an ordinary day school.

"I know they're antiques, Timothy, but the wingbacks are far more comfortable than that closet."

Bruce didn't sound even half as angry as he had on the phone, but that could always be a trick.

Still, Tim should have known better than to think he could hide from _Batman_ in his own house, so he stood up and eased open the closet door, trying to get a glimpse of Bruce’s face so he could figure out what kind of trouble he was in for running away from Jason like that.

Probably a lot, he decided, when he saw that Bruce had a blank, board-meeting sort of face on. His dad only ever looked at him like that when he was so angry that frowning didn’t make him feel any better.

“There you are,” he said in a quiet voice. “That’s good; I’m sure Jason’s wondering where you ended up.”

Tim looked around; they weren’t in the same office he’d started out in, and he wondered how many offices Bruce Wayne had in his manor. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I won’t run away again, sir, I promise.”

There. Maybe if he followed all the rules from here on out, it wouldn’t be so bad.

He crept closer, circling warily around the desk while Bruce simply _watched_ , closer until he was within grabbing distance, and then, close enough to put a hand on Bruce’s knee, close enough to lean in for a hug.

Bruce’s arm wrapped around his shoulders when he did, but it stayed up there, at his shoulders, and after a few moments of Tim panting against his shoulder, trying to decide what it all _meant_ , his other arm joined it, squeezing firmly and then reaching up to pet his hair.

Tim felt himself relax despite his best intentions, and Bruce just kept holding him; not saying anything or making him climb into his lap, just--

Just _nice_.

“Is my dad angry?” he asked finally, his voice sounding tiny and far away even from inside his head.

“Timothy,” Bruce said, then he sighed, a puff of hot air brushing Tim’s temple. “I expect he’s furious,” he said finally. “But that no longer affects you in any way, I promise.”

“You can’t say that,” Tim said aloud. He really hadn’t meant to, but the hug was making it hard to remember the rules. Everything felt smudgy and far away when Batman’s arms were around his shoulders.

“Of course I can,” Bruce said. “Now, whenever you’re ready, I expect Alfred and Jason have made themselves sick with worry over your disappearance.”

Tim should have pulled away and nodded and smiled and apologized again, but Bruce had said ‘when you’re ready’, and Tim wasn’t yet.

***

A week went by, and Bruce was almost never around, which was both terrifying, because Tim couldn’t help but think that meant he was _really_ angry with Tim, and it was nice, because Alfred was nice, and Jason was kind of mean but he didn’t mean it like a dad did, he was just… Jason.

Jason made him break into his own room on the second night, and on the third day, Alfred made them both go to a shoe store where they picked out shoes for every possible sort of circumstance that might arise.

Jason liked the light up kind, which Tim thought was maybe a little childish, but Jason was a couple years older, so maybe he was wrong. Alfred was adamant about a pair of rough terrain hiking boots, which Jason got funny-eyed about, but he helped Tim with figuring out if they were comfortable or not.

They had to have help from the sales clerk to take out all of the shoes they’d bought, and Alfred had just shaken his head when Tim tried to use his dad’s credit card to pay.

Every night, before bed, Tim went down the hall six doors to Bruce’s bedroom and slipped inside.

Every night, Bruce would look up from his book or his computer or whatever he was working on, frown, and say “Goodnight, Timothy,” before pressing a button for Alfred to come and take him back to his bedroom across from Jason’s.

Then, on the seventh night, Bruce wasn’t there.

Tim’s heart started racing suddenly, and he _flew_ down the hallway to his own bedroom, turning off the lights and drawing the curtains because cameras need light to see, then putting on his Batman clothes and a new pair of shoes that he thought would be good for running and climbing.

His camera he pulled from the place he’d hidden it when he and Jason had gotten back from their break-in, and he stuffed his pockets with spare film.

The bus stop the help used was a lot further away with the entire grounds of Wayne Manor between him and the street, and another half a mile after that, but he’d been getting to finish _every_ supper, so he felt like he could run forever and not get tired, so he did.

The first place he went once he was in Gotham proper was the GCPD building, racing up a fire escape and then leaping across the gap, skidding on gravel and not even wincing.

Shoes were _awesome_.

“You’ve missed them,” Commissioner Gordon said, sucking on the end of his cigar. “By about 45 minutes.”

“Do you know where they went?” Tim asked. He hoped it was downtown so he could get more pictures; he wasn’t sure if he had enough pocket change for bus fare somewhere else _and_ back to the Manor.

He’d have to figure out if Bruce was going to give him an allowance, and whether the shoes counted against it.

“No,” Commissioner Gordon said. “I don’t have any open cases for them, and _he_ said something about a personal case.”

Tim chewed his lip.

“I do have cookies though,” the commissioner said. “Come inside?”

“This isn’t some plan to get me locked up again while you look for my parents, is it?” Tim asked, because he was supposed to.

“No way, kid,” Commissioner Gordon replied, the way he always did. “I gave up on that years ago.”

Once they were inside the commissioner’s office, Tim hopped up on the desk and kicked his feet. He liked it in here. Jim was the sort of adult who had absolutely no use for children, and he smoked and swore in front of Tim and never ever tried to touch him.

“Nice shoes,” Jim said, opening up a plastic tub of cookies.

Tim took one and shrugged.

“I don’t want to know where you got them,” Jim said.

Tim smiled. “I went to a store and tried on every pair, and then I bought them.”

Jim snorted. “Eat your damned cookie, kid. You going home after this?”

Tim took a bite of cookie and considered. “I don’t know; is your radio on?”

Jim reached across the desk to turn up the volume so Tim could hear the crackle of static on an empty channel.

“I guess we’ll see, then,” Tim said, kicking his feet some more.

***

The second night that Bruce’s bedroom was empty, the tenth night Tim had been there, he made it to the GCPD before Batman and Robin had left. It looked like they were going over a case, and Tim got a really good shot of Robin sitting on the rooftop with his legs dangling over the side, smoking a cigarette which normally only did when he was blocks and blocks away from Batman, which was really cool.

It was Tim’s first picture of Robin smoking with the silhouette of Batman in the background.

Commissioner Gordon wasn’t happy about whatever was in the case Batman was giving him, and he kept looking at Tim’s hiding spot which kept making Tim’s heart leap into his throat, because Batman might _look_ and while Batman had looked right over his hiding space a thousand times, it only took _one_ mistake.

Especially now, since Tim lived with him and could easily be locked up forever.

He was pretty sure that Batman’s handcuffs were harder to slip off than police issue; and besides, he wasn’t a little kid anymore; he couldn’t hide under a desk until the social worker left.

“He did _what_?” Commissioner Gordon demanded suddenly, his voice carrying through the night. Robin jumped up and circled around, but Batman tipped his papers so Robin wouldn’t be able to see them.

Tim snapped another picture.

Batman said something else, and the commissioner replied “I can’t guarantee that! The only person who can make that decision is the prosecuting attorney. I mean, he’s a _kid_ and the nature of the crime and the video evidence would seem to--”

His voice got too quiet to follow, and Tim curled up so he could nap a little while he waited for them to go.

The loud _snap_ of the cape catching air as Batman left woke him as it always did, and Tim made a note of Batman’s direction, then glanced up at the GCPD roof.

Commissioner Gordon waved at him to come up, which he only very rarely did, so with a last longing glance at Batman, Tim climbed the rest of the way up the fire escape and then crossed the roof.

“Hey, kiddo. I think it’s a diner night,” he said.

“Really?” Tim said. “Bad case?”

Jim nodded, exhaustion clearly marring his expression. “The worst,” he said, and then shockingly, he squeezed Tim’s shoulder.

Tim froze, and Jim snatched his hand back, looking even worse, suddenly. “Is Babs okay?” Tim demanded.

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Yeah, she’s fine. Everyone’s… fine.”

“Okay,” Tim said, not believing him.

They were seated in a booth in Jim’s favorite diner, and Tim was fiddling with his wallet and the cards. He’d seen in the news that his dad was in the Caribbean, so he could probably pay for his meal and no one would notice, but he wasn’t _sure_. He missed having an allowance.

Well, not really. He had asked Jason about it, and the shoes, two days ago, and Alfred had given him a new credit card on Bruce’s accounts, but he couldn’t very well use _that_ because the charge would show he’d snuck out.

He missed the little cash offerings his dad always left on the table for him when he’d managed to be good for a couple days straight.

“So,” Jim said once the waitress had taken their orders.

Tim tapped his fingers on his camera and nodded.

“You know I’m always happy to listen, right kid?” he asked after a few more minutes of silence.

Tim blinked at him. “You aren’t,” Tim said. “You’re grouchy and you don’t get enough sleep and tobacco and scotch make everyone awful,” he said, repeating verbatim what Jim always said when he was stolidly _not_ apologizing for something.

Jim sighed and rubbed his moustache. “Kid,” he said. Then, after a few seconds, he started again. “ _Tim_ ,” which made Tim freeze. He had told Jim 31 false names over the past 5 years, and never once his real one. “I just.” He shook his head, then took off his glasses to he could rub his eyes. “I’m a blind fool,” he said finally.

Tim reached out a tentative hand to grab Jim’s, because he was pretty sure Jim was his only friend (maybe Jason, too, but that was hard to believe. Robin was an _imaginary_ friend, not a real one) and because he was pretty sure that’s what friends were supposed to do. “You were a detective,” Tim said slowly. “A pretty good one, or you wouldn’t be in charge now. Not a blind fool.”

“Let me try again,” Jim said after a few minutes during which he did nothing but stare at Tim and rub his moustache. “If you needed someone to listen, you know you could always have come to me, right?”

Tim nodded. “You’re my friend,” he said. “You help me get my pictures, and I send you the ones that are good for evidence, and in return I don’t get myself killed.”

Jim’s jaw twitched, and Tim hunched in a little, unsure if Jim was going to be angry about that.

“So, you wanna tell me about your new family?” he said. “The ones who bought your shoes and feed you three squares.”

“I don’t know,” Tim said, pulling his fingers away. “I mean, I’d tell you about them, but I don’t know what to say.”

“You have a new brother, right?” Jim pressed, and Tim was getting a very bad feeling about what exactly Batman had been showing Commissioner Gordon earlier. “What’s that like? You were an only child, right?”

He grabbed his camera and held it tightly, letting the plastic press into his palm.

“I dunno,” he said. “Why’d you say that?”

“Tim,” Commissioner Gordon said, leaning forward. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Tim shook his head, stuffed his wallet in his pocket, and bolted, almost colliding with the waitress on his way out of the diner and not even bothering to apologize.

***

Tim made his way down to breakfast the next morning without having slept at all the night before, slightly relieved that Batman hadn’t burst in to punish him for sneaking out.

Jason was bleary-eyed and surly at the breakfast table in the kitchen, shoveling food into his mouth and barely chewing before he swallowed it.

Tim couldn’t help but stare at him, until Jason finally snapped out a grumpy “What?”

“Jason,” Tim started slowly, and Jason stopped eating so he could nod and smile at him. The smile seemed almost apologetic, so Tim didn’t even worry about his earlier tone. Jason just got snappish sometimes. Alfred seemed to think it was a teenaged boy sort of thing, so Tim was mostly ignoring it. “Are we brothers now?”

Jason laid down his spoon and frowned, brow furrowing up while he thought about it.

“Well, I guess if Bruce is gonna adopt you for real, like he’s working on for me, then probably we will be, yeah.”

Tim frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think it should be up to a _dad_ ,” he said, and the way he made the word sound, like it was poison and hurting, felt weirdly _good_.

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Fair point. Do you _want_ to be brothers? I mean, Dick wasn’t so sure about it at first, but he’s okay with me now. You could call him and--” Jason frowned harder. “You should probably ask him too, if you _want_ brothers.”

“I dunno,” Tim said. “I’ve never had one before and I like _you_ but in books brothers aren’t always the best. Like Edmund in the Narnia books.”

“Edmund’s cool though,” Jason said. “He realizes it was a mistake and then Peter says he still loves him. _That’s_ the brothers part.”

Tim nodded, twisting his hands in his lap. “If it could be like that, maybe,” Tim said. “Peter was a good brother.”

Jason nodded slowly. “And the Hardy Boys are brothers too,” he added.

Tim bit his lip. “What if it’s like, a temporary thing? We’ll try being brothers for a week and see if we like it, and if not, then we don’t have to be, even if there are papers that say we are?”

Jason was watching him carefully, and he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds like a good plan. I’ll call Dick tonight too, and tell him about you. He’ll probably want in on the trial run. He’s got a lot of friends and I think he sees brothers as basically friends and he’ll want as many as possible.”

Tim frowned. “I don’t know if I want that many brothers,” he said. “Or friends.”

Jason grimaced. “Yeah, I know,” he said.

***

Without being able to check up on Batman and Robin at the GCPD, Tim was having a much harder time tracking their movements.

He was a little disappointed, because he’d be starting school soon, and he knew that if the teachers started asking questions about why he was tired he’d be in trouble, so he wouldn’t be able to go out as often.

He wondered if Robin got into trouble when teachers asked about him being tired, or if it was okay because it was from being Robin, not from being bad, and then he decided he’d probably know soon enough so he shouldn’t worry about it.

A couple of people came to talk to him about staying with Bruce, and just that morning he had heard his dad’s voice in the main study but Alfred had appeared in the hallway between them and ushered him out to the gardens. Weeding was a lot of work, but Alfred had said he was very good at it, so that had been nice.

He’d decided to try the docks this evening when Bruce hadn’t been in his room, but so far there’d been no sign of Batman. He sighed and kicked some trash, and then rounded the corner straight into a bunch of mobsters unloading a ship.

It was unfortunate, but nothing he hadn’t had to run away from before, except his shoe was untied, so he tripped and fell. The first guy to reach him stopped short of kicking him and said, “Shit, boss, it’s some kid with a camera!”

And Tim had started screaming.

They tried to shut him up with their fists, and then they finally managed to get a gag between his teeth, but he kept making as much noise as possible, and despite how awful it was going to be when he did, he hoped Batman _would_ show up at the docks tonight.

Or Robin.

Or the police.

He kicked with all his might at the next guy to come close enough for kicking, and _he_ started yelling too, and then, finally.

A shadow on a shipping container. The swish of batarangs as they cut the night air. Grunts of pain from the mobsters.

Tim really wished he had his hands free to use his camera, and then Batman was down among the bad guys, taking them out with ruthless efficiency. Robin wasn’t with him, which a part of Tim noted and felt sick about; not that Jason would probably want to be brothers anymore since Tim was stupid enough to get himself caught by mobsters on the docks.

He wasn’t very good after all. Maybe he should become a gardener and Alfred could sometimes weed the garden with him.

Once everyone was out of the fight, Batman came to cut him free, and Tim scrambled back over to where his camera had fallen, snatching it up for inspection.

The entire case was cracked, and the door that protected the film wasn’t shut all the way. Tim stared at it in disbelief.

He felt something in his stomach unravel, and he cradled the camera against his chest, trying to _think_ and coming up blank. Without the camera, there was _nothing_. He couldn’t ever _fly_ and now he couldn’t even _pretend_ and what was he supposed to do? He realized that after all of the confusion and horrible things that had happened over the past two weeks, this was what ended up making him cry for the first time since he was really small and his dad had had to punish him for it.

His stupid _camera_. He sobbed and scrubbed at his face.

“Are you okay?” Batman demanded, standing just far enough away that Tim knew he’d have to take a step to grab him. It was weird, but then everything about Bruce Wayne was weird.

Tim tried to say he was fine, because he was. Maybe a little bruised, and his mouth tasted gross, but he’d been way worse. He probably _would_ be way worse whenever Bruce was done punishing him for sneaking out and getting caught by mobsters on the docks.

“M-my _camera_ ,” he said, and his voice came out all wrong, squeaky and thick.

“May I see?” Batman asked, voice rough but not loud or demanding like Tim had expected. Batman held out a gauntleted hand, and Tim slowly passed him the camera, their fingertips barely brushing before he drew back with a sharp movement and a shudder.

Batman looked over the camera and grunted, then set it down on a nearby shipping crate in order to pull something out of his utility belt.

Tim watched as Batman wrapped something-- plastic? and tape all around his camera and then put it in an empty pouch which bulged with its new burden. “It’s dark,” Batman said. “The film may not be overexposed, and that should keep it from getting worse.”

Tim nodded, and Batman turned to look at him full on, which made Tim take an involuntary step back, and he rubbed his face, trying to quiet his sobs. First crying, and now flinching? He was for sure going to be in the worst kind of trouble.

Batman nodded. “Okay,” he said, almost to himself. “Robin, what’s your location?”

Oh, Tim thought. Radios. He wondered for a second if he could somehow figure out the frequency, and then squashed that thought. Probably he was never going to be allowed to leave the Manor ever again, so it didn’t really matter.

“Good,” Batman said. “Rendezvous at my coordinates as soon as possible.”

Then, even more confusingly, Batman sat down on the crate and carefully looked away from Tim. Tim waited for it to be a trick, but Batman didn’t move, so he sat down too, tucking his knees up under his chin and trying to stop crying.

A few minutes later, Robin dropped down between the two of them and snapped “What the hell, B? Why’s he _crying_?”

Tim felt even worse, and he couldn’t help the wracking sobs that shuddered through him.

“I suspect,” Batman said in a quiet voice. “That he is terrified.”

“But you got the bad guys,” Robin said, turning in a full circle as if to confirm this fact.

“Yes,” Batman said.

Robin blew out a breath and crept closer to Tim, crouching down when he got close and offering his hand.

Tim grabbed it, squeezing harder than he maybe should have, but Jason was trying out being brothers with him, so that was okay, he thought.

“Hey,” Robin said. “You know it’s okay now, right? The bad guys are all tied up and the police are on their way?”

Tim nodded, but he was too choked with tears and snot to say anything.

“Okay,” Robin said. “So what’s there to be scared of?”

“ _Batman?_ ” Robin asked, incredulous.

“S-sorry,” Tim gasped.

“What did you _do?_ ” Robin demanded, turning away from Tim to shout at Batman.

“Nothing,” Batman said. “I suspect that may be part of the problem.”

Jason scoffed and kicked the ground. “Useless,” he muttered angrily, then turned back. “Hey, c’mon, it’s okay. I wouldn’t be Batman’s partner if he was _scary_ ,” Robin said.

Tim shook his head. “C-can’t,” he said.

“Can’t what?” Robin asked, easing closer, keeping his hand wrapped firmly around Tim’s wrist.

“I c-can’t stop. I t-tried,” he ended on a wail, and the sobs were coming so hard his chest hurt, and Robin cursed a blue streak that was impressive to Tim even with all of his experience.

“Hey, do you think--” Robin asked.

“If you feel it necessary,” Batman replied, and Tim was somehow completely unsurprised by the little canister Robin sprayed in his face, or the immediate ease of sleep creeping up around him.

“There you go,” Robin said. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

***

Jason scooped Tim up and couldn’t help laying a cheek against the top of his head. “He’s too light,” he told Batman. “Definitely need to let Alfie fatten him up more.”

 

“Robin,” came the low warning growl, and Jason rolled his eyes behind his domino.

“We should _definitely_ take this strange child I’ve never seen before back to where he belongs,” Jason said. When he turned in the direction of the batmobile and adjusted his burden, he frowned. “Man, Tim-bird. I’m gonna have to introduce you to the wonders of the chili-dog.”

Batman sighed, and Jason grinned since he knew his partner couldn’t see it.

***  
When they got back to the cave, Batman sent Jason and Alfred up with Tim to make sure he was safely ensconced in his own bed before they had a very serious meeting in the cave about his activities.

Bruce had taken off the cowl and pulled up the surveillance footage of the Manor, and Jason sprawled in the chair next to him with a sigh.

“That’s seriously un-cool, you know?” he told Bruce. “Spying on us.”

“So is smoking on the ledge outside the attic window,” Bruce said. “And yet you persist.”

Jason grinned over at him, and Bruce flicked his gaze Jason’s way as if to make sure he _was_ grinning.

Jason stretched. “So, he’s been sneaking out?”

“Everytime we go on patrol, apparently,” Bruce said, frowning. “How he could know--”

“If I may, sir,” Alfred said, leaning forward to pull up a separate piece of video footage, showing Tim walking to Bruce’s door, knocking, and opening it, then, rewinding, it showed all of Bruce’s comings and goings, and the night before, the same thing: Tim, freshly scrubbed and dressed in Jason’s hand-me-down pajamas, knocking on the door and then being escorted away.

“Every night?” Jason said.

“Rather,” Alfred said primly.

“Wonder where he thinks Bruce is?” Jason mused aloud, leaning forward in the chair to squint at TIm’s small shoulders.

“I wonder where _he_ goes,” Bruce said.

“The docks, apparently,” Jason said.

Bruce didn’t comment, but he did turn to a table that had a plastic-wrapped bundle square in the center. “We can find out,” he said, but he was hesitating. Jason had never seen Bruce hesitate like this in the entire time he’d lived with him, but when it came to Tim, it was clear Bruce felt completely out of his depth.

Well, that was okay. Dick had been careful to explain that _that_ was Robin’s real job, so he’d taken up the slack to the best of his ability, and he’d brushed off Bruce’s awkwardly expressed concern for his own emotions with a grin and flippant remarks.

To think Bruce had almost _apologized_ over the fact that due to his skill at blackmail and the evidence of abuse he’d found, the adoption of one Timothy Jackson Drake would be a much swifter process than Jason’s, and Tim might in fact become legally Bruce’s before Jason.

Jason had been there in the Manor far longer, and he knew rich people were crazy. It wasn’t like it was a surprise.

“What even is that?” Jason asked. “Something the mobsters had? Because that was a straight up drug bust; I’ve still got the police frequency on.” He gestured at his ear.

“No,” Bruce said. “It’s Timothy’s.”

Jason leaned forward. “Oh,” he said. “I know what it is,” he added, feeling guilty even though Bruce had told him to keep Tim’s secrets unless it was a life or death sort of secret.

Well, he hadn’t used _those_ words.

Jason stood up, grabbed the plastic bundle, and jogged over to the darkroom.

“Jason--” Bruce started, but Jason waved.

“If you want to know why he was at the docks, you’re going to have either ask him and hope he doesn’t give himself heart failure over the possibility that he’s somehow angered you, or you develop his film.”

“There may be nothing to develop,” Bruce said. “The casing cracked.”

“It was really dark though,” Jason said reasonably. “I bet some of the film is okay.”

An hour later, they had the contact prints spread before them, and Jason was pretty sure they were all equally confused.

“That’s me,” he said, pointing to the picture of Robin on the GCPD building, cigarette between his lips and Batman looming large in the background. “I don’t remember that, though. It had to have been recently though, see? That bruise on my leg in the picture is only just now healed up.”

“It was the night I gave the case file on Timothy to Commissioner Gordon,” Bruce said, memory as irritatingly perfect as ever.

Jason made a noise of disgust. “Okay, but that’s missing the point.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him.

“He’s got 18 pictures of us on this film. All of them are pretty damn good, I think. I dunno, Alfie, you’re the art person. They’re good, right?” Jason raised an eyebrow at him.

“They’re quite artistically sound, for a 12 year old.”

Jason frowned. “So that means he’s been doing this for awhile, right? Probably. I mean he’s a genius, and he’s uh…” Jason frowned and scratched his cheek. He knew there was a word for Tim, for his weirdly adult knowledge. “You know. Mature or whatever. But this is a skillset, not a thing you just _do_. So how long has he been following us?”

Bruce froze. “But when.”

“His dad travels a lot, right? Travelled?” Jason tapped the picture he liked best, Batman mid-flight, no lines anywhere in evidence. “When he was away, maybe it was easier to escape to the streets than. Well. I never took a trick back to _my_ squat, you know?”

Bruce sucked in a harsh breath, but didn’t try to say anything about it, which Jason was intensely grateful for.

“There’s no way to find out,” Bruce said finally. “We could ask him, but I believe you were the one who brought up heart failure as a possibility.”

“Well, there is, actually,” Jason said slowly. “Remember how me and him broke in to get his clothes and stuff?”

“Which he doesn’t actually wear or use, yes,” Bruce said with a wry little twist to his lips. Jason huffed. Tim’s stuff had all been _crap_. Little adult tailored slacks and collared shirts, not a single comfortable item among them.

No pajamas, no blankets on the bed, no pillows.

No socks, no sweatshirts, no underwear.

He shuddered a little, remembering.

“Well he got his camera, _that_ camera, and he got this lock box thing. I didn’t ask for details because, well,” Jason shrugged. He’d been kind of afraid that Tim would try to _stay_ in that room if he’d pressed for any info, and that was completely un-riskable. “And I know where he stashed it-- I saw it the other day.”

Alfred nodded slowly. “Yes. He is extremely tidy, but-- I know where it is as well.”

“Well,” Jason said. “I guess that means you get to decide, B.”

“Decide,” Bruce intoned, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Jason said. “Until tonight you’ve been hell-bent on giving him _space_ or whatever. So, do you steal his one private possession and snoop? Or do you let this go and put a better lock on his window?”

Bruce frowned at him, and ten minutes later, they were reconvened in the dining room with the lockbox in front of them.

When it opened, Jason was mostly not surprised to see that it was file-folders full of photographs, labelled obsessively by date, with one in the very back not labeled at all.

Jason grabbed that one, while Bruce went for the very first one, labeled with this year.

He flipped his open and stared at the carefully preserved plastic pages of 4 X 6 photographs, smiling a little when he flipped them over and saw that each one had an index card in behind it with notes.

Tim had noticed when he’d taken over for Dick, he saw, labelling all of the pictures of him with “Robin II”.

Most of the notes were things like weather, the date, the time, the location, but there were three that stood out.

“He’s so much better than I am,” on the back of the third photograph chronologically that had Jason as Robin, “Quadruple somersault!!!” on the back of one of Dick grinning triumphantly directly at the photographer, and one of Dick, John, and Mary Grayson with a chubby little dark-haired toddler, labeled in someone else’s handwriting with only the date, a date that even Jason had imprinted on his heart, because of how important it was to Dick Grayson.

“He knows who we are,” Jason said quietly.

Bruce looked up from his stack, and Jason saw that Alfred had his own folder open before him.

“Impossible,” Bruce said.

“Look at this,” Jason said, handing the pages with the three important photographs on them, watching Bruce’s face carefully for his reaction.

Abruptly, Bruce slapped the table and sat back, and Alfred gingerly took the pages, reading the notes with a critical eye, and then smiling.

“He is extremely clever, our Master Timothy,” Alfred allowed, then started sorting the photographs back into their folders and the folders back into the lockbox.

“Alfred,” Bruce protested.

“He has photographs going back six years, disregarding the very oldest which was clearly not taken by him. He is aware, at the very least, of Richard Grayson’s identity as Robin, and it would perhaps be safest to assume that he has determined yours and Jason’s as well. There is nothing more for us to learn from this, and these are his very private memories. I shall return it to his room, and then we will have tea while you decide on a course of action.” Alfred only got like this when he was not going to back down on a point, and Jason would never, ever get tired of watching _Batman_ capitulate to an old man who was very technically his employee.

Jason stared at his hands, and Bruce sighed.

“I can’t lock him in his bedroom,” he said. “I can’t train him as Robin. I can’t let him wander alone.”

Jason shrugged. “Why not?” he asked. “He’s pretty sneaky, and he’s been wandering alone for literal years, and you’re technically his legal guardian and I think locking a kid’s window is not actually seen as abusive but in fact normal.”

“ _You_ are Robin,” Bruce said. “And he is undernourished and undersized for his age.”

Jason shrugged. “I was undernourished.”

“You also don’t think that _shoes_ are a precious privilege that you would do _anything_ to continue to have,” Bruce said. “Your situations are extremely different.”

Jason nodded. “No, I get that. He’s a sheltered little rich kid, I’m a street rat, Dick’s a carnie. But you know what we’ve all got in common?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, and it was edging on irritated.

“Bruce Wayne rescued us,” Jason said. “It’s simple. Personal loyalty. You’ve got it in spades.”

Bruce snorted.

“No, really,” Jason insisted. “It’s not just us, either. What about Talia, and Tatsu, and Selina.”

“You’ve just listed my long-term lovers,” Bruce said. “And my adopted children.”

“Ye-es,” Jason said, drawing the word out. He waggled his eyebrows when it felt like Bruce didn’t get it.

After a few minutes, Alfred had returned and Bruce was still giving him a _look_ so he snapped, “Oh, fuck this,” and stormed off to his room, dialling Dick’s number four times but never actually letting him pick up.

He just didn’t _know_.

When it was finally a reasonable hour of the morning, Jason pried himself out of his bed and crossed the hallway to check on Tim, who would hopefully be waking up as soon as the effects of the knockout spray wore off.

Sure enough, Tim was just making up his bed when Jason burst in on him, and he smiled shyly at Jason in greeting.

Jason flopped on his bed. “Go, shower,” Jason said. “I know you’re just going to fidget for six years if I try to talk to you first. You know you don’t _have_ to shower twice a day here, right? Like, honestly, as long as you aren’t getting gross and stinking up the place, you really don’t gotta shower every day if you don’t wanna.”

“I--” Tim said, swallowing hard and looking away from Jason. “I need to be _clean_ ,” he said. “I don’t want to be bad.”

“Right,” Jason said. “Go. But I wanna hang, today, with my trial-run brother, so be quick or else I might change my mind.”

Tim nodded frantically, his whole body moving with the motion, and Jason shooed him with a wave.

A few minutes later, a freshly scrubbed Tim emerged from the en-suite, wearing a different set of Jason’s old flannel pajamas and thick socks.

“You cold, Tim-bird?” Jason asked. “Coz I’ve got a solution to that problem, c’mon.”

He dragged Tim by the hand across to his room and pulled out a Gotham Knights hoodie, which he dropped on Tim’s face, making him protest with a stutter.

Jason laughed and helped him roll up the sleeves so he could hold his hand on the way down to the kitchen.

When they got there, Alfred was cooking, and Jason tucked Tim into the breakfast nook ahead of him so he could get the sunny spot. Tim was always cold, and he was also always avoiding the most obvious solutions to being cold.

Jason had taken it upon himself to make sure the kid always had the warmest spots whenever they were hanging out.

Tim blinked slowly and his head bobbed, until he jerked himself up and stared wildly around.

“Sleepy?” Jason asked. “That’s normal, it’s okay. You should be back to normal in a day or so.”

He rapped his fingertips on the table, and then added, “Sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” Just to prove himself right.

Tim shivered and wrapped his arms around his chest, somehow managing to make himself look even smaller than he was. “Is Bruce mad?” he asked in a tiny voice.

Jason frowned. “So, secret time,” he said. “Bruce is always mad. It’s kind of his deal.” Tim shivered again, and Jason rubbed his back. “But like, at you specifically? Not really. More, uh, perplexed and conflicted.”

Tim nodded, still trembling.

“Hey, you okay?” Jason asked, tucking Tim against his side and pressing his hand against his forehead like his mom had used to do whenever she was, well-- _well_ , and Jason had been feeling sick.

He was a little warm, maybe, Jason thought, but he was also wearing a ton of clothes, and Jason would definitely not have been surprised to find out that his chills were all in his head so he’d wear as much clothing as possible.

Alfred brought them their plates and Tim picked at his until Jason buttered his toast up for him and poured maple syrup all on his french toast. “Now it’ll be ruined if you don’t eat it,” he told Tim. “And that’s no good.”

Bruce came in after Tim had had a few bites, and Tim froze, carefully looking at his plate but no longer eating.

“Good morning, sir,” Alfred said. “I trust you slept soundly.”

Bruce grumbled a non-answer and Alfred deftly slid his coffee cup in front of him.

It said “World’s Greatest” on the side that was facing him and Tim, and Jason knew that the other side said “Cat-sitter” because he’d bought it for him for Father’s Day and it had made Alfie snicker when he’d seen it.

“I’m sorry,” Tim said quietly. Jason tried to hush him, but Bruce’s gaze was drawn to them, and Bruce frowned.

Tim jerked in response, and Jason grimly angled his own body so he was between Tim and Bruce.

He knew Bruce _kinda_ got it, that he was basically the thing that went bump in the night for Tim, but he didn’t really _understand_ , so Jason decided to try a new tack.

That was what Robin was supposed to do, after all. Bridge the gap between Batman and everyone he was supposed to get along with? Dick had told him as much, at least, and in his two years of experience, that had held.

“Alright, Tim-bird,” Jason said. “I got this. Hey, boss,” he waved to get Bruce’s attention. “Question for you.”

Bruce glared, which in pre-coffee mode, Jason took as an invitation to continue. He smirked. “What are the odds of you, I dunno, taking away meals as a punishment.”

Bruce’s eyes widened with surprise, which so didn’t make sense because from Tim’s mistrust of plates put in front of him and his size and some of his comments to Jason, it was pretty obvious Jack Drake had liked to control that.

And everything else, probably. Well, everything except for Tim’s photography.

“Ballpark me here,” Jason said.

“Meals plural? Bruce said. “Absolutely nonexistent.”

“Mm,” Jason agreed, then put Tim’s fork back in his hand. “Eat til you’re full, remember?” Jason told him.

“And try not to explode anything,” Tim agreed shyly.

Bruce snorted, and Jason rolled his eyes.

“What about, I dunno, belts.”

“Belts?” Bruce said.

“Yeah, like, I guess, you get home, and you’re so spitting mad that nothin’ll make sense til you’ve beaten someone with a belt til they’ve stopped screaming.”

For a single, perfect second, unadulterated rage filled Bruce’s entire expression, and Jason felt weirdly pleased and safe, even more so when Bruce’s hand rested on his knee under the table and squeezed once before falling away.

“Never,” Bruce replied, and Alfred brought him his plate then, which he drenched in maple syrup just like Jason had his and Tim’s.

“Okay, Tim-bird,” Jason said. “Your turn. I mean, I could go through _my_ list, but I think they’re a little different.”

Tim tucked harder against Jason’s side and rubbed his face against Jason’s arm. Jason settled them both a little more comfortably and frowned at the glassy expression on the kid’s face.

After a few moments of expectant silence, during which even Alfred stopped moving,Tim blurted, “The stairs room.”

“Elaborate,” Bruce snapped, and really how could he be so _bad_ at this?

“You have to take off your clothes and go into the room under the stairs in the wine cellar and you can’t come out until you’re really really sorry and you’re not allowed to mess yourself and it’s dark and cold and there’s noises and you’re not allowed to scream or cry,” Tim said all in a rush, muffling some of his words with his hands.

With a resounding crash, the World’s Greatest Cat-sitter mug was no more, and Jason stared at the shards of it in the horrified silence that filled the room.

Tim wrapped his fingers around Jason’s arm so tightly that the knuckles were white.

Finally, “There is no stairs room in Wayne Manor,” Bruce said dispassionately. “And no one will ever take away your clothing, or your light, or access to bathroom and hygiene facilities. You are to scream and cry as much as you feel necessary, even if it gives Alfred a headache. Is that understood.”

It seemed to take Tim forever to realize that last sentence had been a question and not a statement, and Jason wondered what would happen if he smacked the World’s Greatest Idiot a couple of times, before agreement tumbled out of Tim in gibberish nonsense that both Jason and Bruce understood.

It might be okay then, after all, Jason thought.

“What else?” he asked quietly. Bruce made a low sound that may have been horror, but Jason chose not to contemplate that.

Before Tim had collected himself for another answer, however, Dick Grayson burst into the kitchen.

“Who died?” he demanded. “Hi, Alfred,” he added with a jaunty wave. “But seriously. _Four_ hang-ups? Jason Peter Todd, you gave me a heart attack.”

Jason rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and you must be Timmy!” Dick said.

Tim whimpered and did his best to merge with Jason’s side.

“Call him that again and I’ll break your tibia,” Jason promised, and Dick arched an eyebrow at him.

“Ri-ight,” he drawled. “So. What’s up? Why’d you call me? Why’d Bruce look six times more constipated than usual? Did you shoplift at Macy’s again?”

Jason shook his head and sighed. The whole damned group of them was insane. Probably him included.

“Nothin’,” Jason said. “I misdialed.”

“Of course you did. So, Tim,” Dick said, emphasizing the name with an exaggerated look at Jason. “It’s very nice to meet you. When B called me to let me know he’d accidentally acquired another kid, I was hoping you’d be cooler than Jason. I see that you are.”

He reached out to ruffle Tim’s hair, and Tim made a little keening noise but held still for it.

“Dick,” Jason growled, and Dick froze, drawing his hand back slowly.

“Jason,” Dick said slowly, communicating a very elaborate ‘what the heck do you want from me, dumbass?’ with his eyebrows.

Tim pulled away from Jason then, slipping under the table and stumbling through the kitchen, hitting his knees about halfway to the door and vomiting prodigiously.

“Eww,” Jason said, wrinkling his nose and getting up so he could grab Tim before he did something dumb like try to clean up the mess.

Sure enough, Tim immediately started apologizing and trying to fight Jason off. Dick was actually helpful, grabbing a bowl from the cupboard and deftly catching the next round.

Bruce went to the refrigerator and the clink of glass said he was probably grabbing seltzer, and Alfred moved immediately to the broom cupboard where he pulled out a mop and set a bucket under the faucet to fill up.

“Master Jason, Master Richard,” Alfred said. “If you would be so good as to relocate Master Timothy to his bedroom, we will come up shortly to care for him.”

“Sure thing, Alfred,” Dick said cheerfully, and Jason glared at him, elbowing him hard when he made like he was gonna be the one to pick him up.

“What the hell, Jay?” Dick demanded in a low voice when they were out of Alfred’s hearing.

“You’re an _adult_ , Dick.” Tim whimpered and they paused for him to retch into the bowl, though nothing much came up.

“I’m not _that_ much older than you!” Dick protested.

“You’re still an adult,” Jason said. “Tim doesn’t like adult men.”

Dick pursed his lips. “Fine. Fair enough. But _you_ don’t have to be an ass about it.”

“Yeah I do,” Jason said, nodding at the door Tim had yet to decorate. Dick opened it and Jason carried Tim over to the bed. “You only speak ass.”

“Sorry,” Tim said. “I made a mess, I’ll clean it up though, I’m sorry, I was trying to be good.”

“You _are_ good,” Dick said automatically, and Jason rolled his eyes at him.

“You’re sick,” Jason explained. “You can’t clean up messes when you’re sick, you have to lay in bed and get better.”

“But I made a mess,” Tim protested. “I don’t mean to be bad, and _he’ll_ say I did it on purpose if I don’t clean it up, I’m sorry, tell him I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Jason said, brushing Tim’s hair back. “Let’s get you tucked in and warm, and then when Alfred comes in you can apologize to him. Once. And then you have to worry about getting better, okay?”

Dick left, and Jason carefully settled Tim into his bed, feeling weird deja vu to his mom when the shakes had gotten too bad for her to take care of her own basic needs.

When Dick came back, he had Zitka and an armful of brightly colored blankets.

“Alright kiddo,” Dick said cheerfully. “Time for the Grayson method of getting better.”

“Zitka,” Tim said, taking her and holding her tightly against his chest.

“I see you two are acquainted already,” Dick said with a wry look in Jason’s direction. Jason shrugged. It wasn’t like _he_ had anything like Zitka, and Dick obviously didn’t mind, so whatever.

“I never get sick,” Tim informed them primly, then he rolled over and retched again, until his shoulders were shaking from the strain. “I’m cold,” he whispered once he was done. Dick took the bowl into the bathroom to get it rinsed out, and Jason spread the new blankets on top of the ones already on the bed.

Dick came back out and set the bowl on the night stand.

“Sick, huh?” he asked. “Wonder how that happened; you’ve been cloistered away here for over two weeks, haven’t you?”

Tim shut his eyes and rolled over, clutching Zitka tighter.

“Actually, Tim is quite the adventurer,” Jason said. “He sneaks out at night and explores the city.”

“Does he,” Dick said, looking incredibly amused. “What a shocking and rare turn of events in Wayne Manor.”

“Oh yes,” Jason agreed. “Absolutely unheard of for one of us to go off on our own at night. Anyway, have you ever seen this sort of reaction from the knockout spray?”

“Nah,” Dick said. “Ordinary stomach bug.”

He patted the blanket covered shoulder nearest him, and Tim didn’t jerk away, which surprised Jason.

“Knockout spray?” Dick asked after a moment.

“Panic attack,” he said. “Mobsters were involved. Well, and the Boss,” he added.

“So, two weeks in and he already got it?” Dick said, smiling proudly.

“No, he already knew,” Jason said.

“What?” Dick demanded.

“How?” Tim whispered.

“You have a very distinctive skillset, Robin I,” Jason said.

“Quadruple somersault,” Tim agreed, and then Alfred and Bruce were in the room too, everyone making a big fuss of Tim, and, Jason hoped, teaching him that he was worth fussing over.

Once he was sure Tim wasn’t too scared by the big bad wolves in the room, he slipped out and headed to his favorite spot on the roof, the flat expanse of roofing just outside one of the gables in the attic.

Sighing, he lit up a cigarette and thought that maybe they didn’t really need him anymore. Tim would be way better at charity galas and stuff than Jason ever had been, and he was sneaky enough to be Robin, and probably smarter than Jason-- he’d found out the kid was supposed to be starting 9th grade in a few weeks, same as Jason, who’d had to take eighth grade a lot later than normal because of how he’d stopped going to school at all.

He lit a second cigarette and sucked on it, thinking about where he’d go once Bruce got around to telling him he needed to go.

Dick climbed out onto the roof with him before he’d finished the second cigarette, and, instead of yelling at him about the smoking, he got a cigarette out of the pack and swatted Jason upside the head. “I need a light,” he said, and Jason obligingly flicked his lighter and held it up for Dick.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Jason said once Dick had sucked down his first drag. “It’ll kill you young.”

“So will superheroing,” Dick pointed out, the words colored with smoke and the smell of nicotine. “So, you’re wrong, by the way.”

“I’m wrong,” Jason repeated. “What about, this time?”

“You’re thinking that Tim’s better for Bruce than you, right?”

“No,” Jason said defensively. “I can’t believe you left him down there alone with Bruce, either.”

“He’s fine,” Dick said. “Bruce is _adopting_ him, and you know Bruce won’t do anything. It’s time for Tim to start figuring that out.”

Jason made a noise of disagreement, and Dick blew smoke in his face. “Plus, Alfred’s there. He trusts Alfred.”

“True,” Jason said.

“You got any more of your childhood vices up here?” Dick asked. Jason sighed and handed him his flask.

“Perfect,” Dick said, sighing.

“So,” Jason said. “How’re the Titans?”

“Fine,” Dick said. “How’s Robin?”

Jason grumbled and stole his flask back.

“New brother,” Dick said. “Gotta be something more substantial running through your head, little wing,” he reached over and squeezed Jason’s knee. “Who better to listen than me? I’ve definitely and decidedly been in exactly your position before.”

“He’s a lot more suited to being Bruce’s kid than I am,” Jason said.

“What,” Dick said. “Because he’s afraid of grown men and flinches when you say his name wrong?”

“Don’t be stupid, you ass,” Jason snapped.

“Only if you stop first,” Dick said lightly.

“He’s… you know he’s like 3 years younger than me and we’re in the same grade?”

“He’s had a dad driving him to be perfect to all appearances, you were scrounging in dumpsters to survive. Yeah, his standard education is ahead of yours.” Dick shrugged then, taking another long draw from the cigarette. “You know I could barely read or write? Like, I knew how, but it was hardly _important_ , and I didn’t have the patience for it.”

“You love reading,” Jason protested.

“I like reading _stories_ ,” Dick said. “Sitting down and holding still long enough to establish basic literacy? Come on, kid, how long have you known me?”

Jason sighed and laid back, wedging his foot in so he wouldn’t slide off the roof.

“Look,” Dick sighed. “The fact is, Bruce can’t help saving people. It’s just sometimes, when it’s kids, when we’re dropped pretty literally into his lap? He’s got a take a more personal angle.”

“We’re not stray cats,” Jason protested.

Dick grabbed his face and pressed their foreheads together. “Jason, I have news for you.”

Jason headbutted him and Dick laughed, clinging to him.

“We are _totally_ stray cats,” Dick said.

There was suddenly another presence on the roof, and Jason pushed Dick aside so he could look at Bruce, who took the cigarette from Jason’s hand, and, after staring at it contemplatively for a moment, he took a drag off of it, exhaling slowly.

Wordlessly, Dick lit Jason a new one, and offered Bruce the flask.

“Man,” Jason said. “I hope there’s no one peering through the hedges with a telephoto lense right now.”

“No,” Bruce said. “ _He_ is safe in his bedroom.”

***  
Tim woke up feeling like his skin was crawling from the dried sweat and dirt that must have accumulated in the past few days.

He shuddered, then cast off the blankets that had been piled on him, only noticing at the last second that Jason was wedged between him and the wall, asleep, with a book splayed spine-up on his chest.

It seemed weird, but okay, like maybe it was a brother-thing and Jason was just fulfilling the terms of their trial run, so he adjusted the pillows so Jason didn’t look nearly as uncomfortable, then went to the bathroom as quietly as he could.

With the door shut safely between him and Jason sleeping in his room, he flipped the lock and checked the handle, feeling a little safer with the knowledge that someone would have to _try_ to get him while he was showering.

He stripped off his pajamas and shoved them into the bin for dirty clothes, then stepped into the shower, spinning the dial and letting the spray warm up before he grabbed his shampoo so he could start washing.

He wasn’t really sure how long it had been since he’d showered; the last little stretch of time kind of blurred together into too-hot and too-cold, Alfred and Bruce and Dick and Jason taking turns sitting with him and reading with him, bringing him soup and tea and rubbing his back when he sicked everything back up.

Tim shampooed his hair a second time, and tried to decide whether he’d gotten puke on Bruce at any point. Maybe he was in trouble, and that was why Jason had been staying in his bed with him? None of the vague, feverish memories really made sense, though, so after he shampooed his hair a third time, he poured body wash all over his bath sponge and started scrubbing, not stopping until his skin was starting to turn from pink to red.

Once out of the shower, he realized he had a problem; he hadn’t brought anything to wear with him. Usually, Jason made sure he had a stack of clothes from across the hall before he disappeared into the bathroom to make sure he was properly clean, but Jason had been asleep this morning? Afternoon? Tim hadn’t even looked at a clock.

He wrapped a towel around himself, and then grabbed a second one for wrapping too, and finally he peeked out into his bedroom.

Jason had rolled over, but he was still asleep, and there was no evidence that Alfred had come up while Tim had been getting clean, so, greatly daring, Tim crept to his door, then darted across the hall to Jason’s room.

He picked the first set of clothes that looked like the soft, well-worn things Jason usually gave him, then grabbed another hoodie from Jason’s massive collection, and finally a pair of thick socks which Jason seemed adamant about him always wearing, and got dressed as quickly as he could, making his way back across the hallway in time to nearly run into Alfred.

Alfred frowned at him, then pressed his hand to Tim’s forehead. “Feeling better, then, Master Timothy?” Alfred asked, smiling a little. “Then I trust you can carry this tray in and put it on your desk. Let me get your bed changed; it’s no good sleeping in it dirty when your fever’s broken.”

“Jason’s sleeping,” Tim said, and it was a little bit like an argument, but he was pretty sure Alfred wouldn’t mind it or call it back talk.

“Of course he is,” Alfred said. “He is a teenager, and teenaged boys sleep every chance they can. Alas, it is after lunch and high time he stirred himself.”

Alfred’s eyes were sparkling with humor, so Tim nodded and trailed behind him into his room.

Alfred shook Jason awake, then raised an eyebrow at Tim, who remembered, in a panicked rush, that he was supposed to have put the tray on the desk. He did so abruptly, wincing when the flatware clinked together, but Alfred didn’t say anything about it.

“Here,” Jason said around a yawn. “You should sit up in the window seat with me.”

Tim glanced at Alfred for permission, and he nodded very slightly, so Timan tucked himself up with Jason in the bright sunlight and let Jason get him toast and chicken broth and apple juice and hot tea until he was feeling full and a lot less sick.

Tim rested his head against Jason’s shoulder and stared out the window, then Alfred startled him by asking him a question.

“Would you like to go out today, or are you still feeling poorly?”

“Out?” Tim echoed.

“Out,” Alfred confirmed. “It has been brought to my attention that your wardrobe is sorely lacking, and I have my own errands to run.”

Tim flinched from that, and Jason squeezed him a little, the way he tended to. “Oh,” Tim said. “I can do errands, I don’t mind.”

Alfred nodded gravely, then said to Jason, “Go put on something you haven’t slept in, I’ll inform Master Richard and see if he will join us.”

Jason pried himself loose from the little nest they’d made in the window, and, once he was gone, Tim wrung his hands together nervously.

“Would you like to help me by taking your tray to the kitchen?” Alfred asked, and Tim nodded desperately and grabbed the tray with the dishes and fled the room.

Alfred hadn’t made it down by the time Tim had dumped the leftover tea and soup into the sink, so he set to rinsing everything out and lining it all up neatly in the dishwasher. His stomach made a feeble protesting growl, but he ignored it.

There was no evidence of where he’d been sick all over the floor, at least, Tim thought.

Bruce came in first, which surprised Tim into speaking.

“Are you coming on errands too?” he asked, and then bit his lip and ducked his head, trying to look small, hoping maybe Bruce would pretend he hadn’t said anything.

“Errands?” Bruce asked mildly, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Tim kept a wary eye on him regardless. Batman was _certainly_ capable of closing that kind of distance without much warning, he thought.

“Yes sir,” Tim said. “Alfred said he’d make Jason come, but he didn’t say you.”

Bruce frowned. “Timothy, come here.”

Tim obeyed instantly, socks skidding a little on the linoleum, so Bruce reached out to right his balance. Tim ducked his hand and regained his footing in a heartbeat, and Bruce was staring at him when he peeked up from under his lashes.

Bruce sighed. “Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

Tim bit his lip harder, trying to picture Bruce in a grocery store like Ms. Mac would have taken him too, picking out milk and smoked salmon and things.

“Have you _ever_ been on errands before?” he ask skeptically, flinching when he realized what he’d said.

“Hmm,” Bruce said. “Maybe when I was smaller,” he said. “Alfred wouldn’t let me out of his sight for a couple of years; if he did, I was always in the worst sort of trouble by the time he tracked me down again.”

Tim twisted the hem of Jason’s hoodie in his fingers. “Did he get mad?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Bruce said, shrugging. “But he’s Alfred, so it was mostly just a sigh and clean clothes and a cup of tea while we _talked_.”

There was the sounds of Jason and Dick shouting, suddenly, and several resounding thuds. Bruce smiled and shook his head. “You’re about to find out,” he told Tim, and, sure enough, a few moments later Alfred, Dick, and Jason were in the kitchen, and Jason was bleeding all over, but Bruce didn’t say anything, and Alfred just pulled an enormous white first aid kit out from under the sink.

“Jay-bird, come on, I’m sorry,” Dick said. “Look, it was just supposed to make you _jump_ , not break that mirror!”

“Seven years of bad luck, you _ass_!” Jason snapped. “And you should know better than to sneak around here! What if it had been Bruce in the hall!”

“Well, _he_ wouldn’t have broken a mirror!” Dick retorted.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, ignoring them. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching down the tea, please. I think the kettle’s still hot from Tim’s snack a while ago.”

Bruce didn’t argue, just stood up and stretched and opened up the cabinet to grab the tea.

“Master Dick,” Alfred said while he was carefully cleaning glass out of Jason’s arm. “If you would turn on the kettle, please?”

“Ow,” Jason protested. “Alfie, come on, be gentle!”

“My apologies, Master Jason, if I’m less than pleased with removing the remnants of a three-hundred year old mirror from your forearm.”

Bruce slid the box of tea onto the counter next to where Dick was pulling out mugs.

“Come on, Timothy,” he said gently. “It’ll be awhile before they’re ready to leave, and I wanted to give you something anyway.”

Tim nodded and let Bruce lead him down the hall to his preferred office, which wasn’t nearly as luchly antique as some of the other rooms in the manor. Once they were inside, Bruce shut the door partway, but didn’t latch it or lock it, and then he opened up a desk drawer, withdrawing a box and an envelope, which he handed to Tim.

He opened the envelope first, and pulled out papers that verified the enrollment of one Timothy Jackson Drake in a photography class for ages 12-14. He bit his lip and glanced up at Bruce, but his expression was unreadable, though he did nod a little, encouraging Tim to open the box, next.

Inside was a camera, several models newer than the one he’d broken, and Tim pulled out slowly, hardly daring to believe it.

He checked it over, fingers brushing against buttons and latches and dials, and then he pulled off the lense cap, squinting through the viewfinder and focusing on the desk in front of them, then Bruce’s hands, the floor, the painting of a sunset on the wall.

“There are other lenses in the bottom,” Bruce said. “I wasn’t sure what you would need, since I was told that all the accessories should be interchangeable between this one and your old one.”

Tim nodded, setting the camera carefully aside and looking through the little cases to see what sorts of lenses Bruce had thought were appropriate.

“They told me there was no possibility of repairing the old one,” Bruce said. “I’m sorry.”

“No!” Tim exclaimed, seizing the new camera and hugging it against his chest. “I mean, it’s, it’s fine. This is okay, I promise, it’s better, I swear.”

Bruce smiled tiredly at him. “I still haven’t decided what to do about the rest of it,” he said quietly. “Please try not to leave the Manor without letting someone know.”

Tim nodded, fingers twitching nervously on the case of the camera.

“Gotham is extremely dangerous,” Bruce explained. “Even for boys who can hide from Batman for six years. I cannot have you getting hurt while you are in my care.”

Tim nodded again. Bruce reached across to gently take one of Tim’s hands and squeeze his fingers. “I won’t keep you _prisoner_ ,” Bruce said. “But I’ve got to decide on an approach that would be fair for everyone.”

Tim nodded, then blurted, “ _Jason_ is Robin!”

Bruce snorted, smiling still. “Exactly.”

“But I can go to the classes?” Tim asked. “And take pictures in the daytime?”

Bruce nodded slowly. “If you tell someone when you leave, yes, you may.”

“Okay,” Tim said.

“Okay,” Bruce agreed.

Tim took that as dismissal; grabbing the box with the lenses and his new camera and fleeing to his bedroom to try them all out, and Bruce let him go.

Tim was beginning to believe that Bruce would _always_ let him go.

* * *

_Six Months Later…_

“Where’d Blackbird go?” Robin asked, peering around himself.

“I’m here,” Blackbird said, emerging from the shadows on the GCPD rooftop. “I just thought I’d let you explain first, and then I could say hi? I think he’s mad at me,” he added.

“Commissioner Gordon isn’t ma--”

“Tim!” Commissioner Gordon yelled, grabbing Blackbird and hugging him tightly. “I _knew_ you were fine, but I couldn’t help worrying--”

“‘M fine, Jim,” Blackbird said. “Lemme go.”

“Aren’t you a little young for all of this?” Commissioner Gordon asked, peering at Robin, who sucked in a drag off of his cigarette and shrugged.

“Same age as I was,” Robin said. “Plus, he’s really sneaky.”

“I know,” Commissioner Gordon said. “Well, tonight is officially a diner night. Come on.”

Blackbird took Commissioner Gordon’s hand, surprising Robin into choking on his next breath.

“You too, Robin,” Commissioner Gordon said. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this.”

Robin stubbed out his cigarette and climbed to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. You’re paying, right, Boss?”

“Actually,” Blackbird said. “It’s my turn. Last time, I ditched.”

“‘Ditched’?” Robin demanded. “Damn it, Blackbird, you’re starting to sound like _me_. Don’t think I won’t wash your mouth out if you start swearing!”

Blackbird looked over his shoulder and stuck his tongue out at Robin, who laughed the whole way to the elevator.


End file.
